


A multi-temporal existence

by AgBH1



Category: Horrible Histories
Genre: Domestic Bliss, HHTV News, Historical References, The Historical Paramedics, Time Travel, of a sort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:54:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28414977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgBH1/pseuds/AgBH1
Summary: A sort of origin for the historical paramedics, leading into life within the HHTV enterprise.
Relationships: Blenkinsop & Maltravers, Blenkinsop/Maltravers
Kudos: 5





	A multi-temporal existence

\---

Maltravers was not aware of dying. He was lying in bed, the uncomfortable, dirty and thin-sheeted hospital bed. Blenkinsop was beside him, in an equally uncomfortable, dirty, and thin-sheeted bed, talking quietly about home. About the flood plains and the herds of cows that bravely traversed them. About the sun on Cotswold stone, and “that queer little gargoyle” they had once adorned with an ink moustache, that was still there everytime they returned home.

His voice was there, right beside Maltravers.

And then it was not.

Then there was a dark expanse and a lot of people, lingering about in a haphazard line. Many soldiers, some officers like him, in uniforms belonging to all parts of this wretched war. And others in civilian clothes. More still, behind and ahead, in other fashions that seemed either archaic or downright absurd.

Somewhere, he thought he could still hear his friend. Behind the darkness, beneath the murmur of subdued conversation between some of those in line and the louder voice coming from a desk up ahead. Maltravers was no fool, despite his commanding officer’s poorly-disguised opinion, and he knew what was afoot. The thing itself - death - was not a bother. Nothing to be done about it, he supposed.

But, surely he could go back, as a ghost or such a thing, if they did indeed exist. Just to keep an eye on Blenkinsop a little longer. Just to make sure he made it through this horror. To make sure that he didn’t fade from the mortal realm in a horrid, cold military hospital amongst strangers. Or, if he must, to talk to him as he did. To sooth his mind, just as Blenkinsop’s words had been a comfort to him over the past few days of growing infection and fever.

With that thought, he turned from the line, towards where he thought he might hear Blenkinsop’s words still, and wandered into the dark expanse.

\---

Blenkinsop had survived not even a day longer than his companion, losing all zeal for survival when he felt Maltravers’ hand grow cold in his own. He had died quietly, without a word or groan of pain, without calling to the doctors or nurses for help, and still clutching the other man’s hand in his own.

He did not hear Maltravers’ voice in the living world, but he heard it now. Calling from somewhere in the distance he couldn’t make out. There was a man behind a desk ushering him impatiently to step forward, but Blenkinsop ignored it to call out to his friend.

“Geoff?” he called, using his friend’s first name because, although Blenkinsop didn’t know precisely where he was, he knew that their commanding officer was definitely not within earshot.

“Nigel!” the reply was distant, could not quite be placed, but there was some direction to it. Blenkinsop moved towards where it seemed to echo from.

“Hey now!” The one behind the desk yelled, “You can’t just wander off!”

“I won’t be a moment, old bean,” replied Blenkinsop, absently dismissing the objection with a wave of his hand, every part of his wavering attention directed towards locating his companion.

He continued walking, oblivious to the confused, indignant, and frankly alarmed yells of the grim reaper, who eventually resigned himself to announcing very loudly (loud enough to ensure all those souls witnessing this rebellion could hear) that there was nothing out there but an eternal void of dark, cold, nastiness.

He was wrong.

Maltravers was out there, and Blenkinsop was jolly-well going to find him.

What happened when he finally did was...bordering on the unusual, to say the least.

\---

At first it was unbearably confusing. The presence of knowledge without any concrete memory.

They knew who they were in an abstract, infinite sense, and were aware of having experienced a great deal of joy and strife together. And yet, none of that had any substance to it.

They also knew with more clarity who they were in the present, even though they were from a time deemed to be the past for those belonging to that particular present.

They were healers, of some description, from some era that didn’t belong to the era that was currently proceeding beyond the walls of their home. They were Celts, Romans, Vikings, Victorians, Georgians...always out of their own time, always with the same job to do. To go out into the world and heal the unfortunate injured and sick, or at least, to try to do so.

And then suddenly, it was over. They woke up in a new time, belonging to a new time, and if they remembered anything of what had happened before it was soon swept away as none of the same sights or sounds or people were to be encountered again.

Had this happened to any other people, they might have become quite morose. But Blenkinsop and Maltravers, or Nigel and Geoff as they went by now with surnames having so little relevance for much of history, were naturally of a cheerful disposition. They were happy to be going out and about to (try and) help people, and they were happy to be doing so together.

It was true that they occasionally ran into trouble. Trying to use spells to heal the sick during the witch trials of the Stuart era hadn’t ended particularly well - they might not have been able to die, but the pain from torture had been very tangible and quite fortunately forgotten on their next ‘rebirth’. Giving laudanam to a patient during the latter part of the 20th century had nearly gotten them arrested, and Geoff had somehow ended up on a plague cart during the middle ages, with Nigel only just managing to rescue him before he ended up in a plague pit.

But, on the whole, they were happy. Their home changed around them with each new era, so they never felt out of place when they returned to it after a long day of work, or woke to the sounds of a world outside to which they knew they didn’t belong. And they always had each other. Some solid, real, and invariant feature of the ever-changing surroundings, and a constant, easy companionship.

Indeed, they had long since accepted their lot, settled into the bemusing state of their existence, by the time of their fateful encounter with Mike Peabody at The Battle of Edgehill.

\---

**Author's Note:**

> If I continue this, it will end up with more stuff about HHTV in general, but we'll see -- mostly, I just wanted to write it to get it out of my system.


End file.
